Up ahead, Dave was in the process of navigating a narrow curve banking around a large playa pond. An oncoming Corvette whizzed past him in the southbound lane, lights on bright and blaring his horn. The trucker yielded as far to the right as possible. The back wheels of his trailer slipped off the pavement and he swerved, pulling them back onto the blacktop. The whole truck undulated, the trailer swinging back and forth from side to side and lane to lane.
Rose slammed on the brakes to keep from ramming into the dark blue semi-trailer as it toppled onto its side and slid down the road. “Sweet Jesus, help,” she cried, and the next thing we knew, centrifugal force threw us onto the floor of the car. Before our eyes, sparks flew six feet in the air, gleaming like fireworks, as the sliding metal trailer scraped against the rock surface of the road.
We slid sideways—tires screaming. Out of control, the Mustang skidded and whirled as it spun across the asphalt. It abruptly came to a stop in the oncoming lane of traffic. Only a couple feet ahead, Dave’s trailer lay on its side, blocking the entire road. The cab, still attached, rested with the upper part in the playa pond. We piled out of the car to see if Dave had survived.
All I could think of was the neon lights strobing: Die…Die…Die.
Chapter Five
The Playa
It amazed me at how the entire rig had slid without rolling over and over. The metallic smell of hydraulic fluid, oil, and gas fumed from the wreckage, and the trailer’s frame sustained significant damage. The empty cab didn’t have one intact glass surface left. But where was Dave?
We searched twenty yards in front of and behind the cab. We hunted across the road in case centrifugal force threw him clear of the wreckage—still, no Dave to be found. If he hadn’t been crushed to death under the trailer, then there was only one other plausible answer. He had been ejected from the cab and gone into the pond.
Without a second thought, I threw off the oversized western shirt, unzipped my cutoffs, and stripped them off. Tightening the drawstring on my swim trunks, I dove into the playa. The combination of the dark moonless night and the murkiness of the playa’s muddy water prevented me from seeing jack shit, much less a submerged body. All I could do was head straight for the bottom and grope around, hoping my hand would recognize a person. After about a minute and a half, I surfaced, gulped some air, and plunged back into the soggy depths. Again I came up for air and dove back to the muddy bottom.
Jimmy stood on the bank by the cab, holding Rose in a bear hug. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Roger waded into the shallows, timing me between breaths, ready to sound an alert if I failed to surface in a reasonable amount of time.
On the fourth dive, my lungs felt as if they would collapse. An urgency to gasp haunted me while kicking and fumbling my way across the boggy bottom of the pond. I swam, enveloped in this pit of shadows. Darkness closed in on me.
“Leave him and save yourself. You can’t manage another long breath.” A gravelly voice clearly rang in my head.
“What? Who said that?” I thought as my eyes grew wide and instantly burned from the watery muck. “Where are you?” I almost forgot to hold my breath as I silently replied.
“Save yourself, return to the surface. Give up on Dave.”
“Who are you? No, don’t tell me—shut up. Shut the hell up.”
“You know me. Even if you don’t want to admit it, you know me. I care for you. Split this scene and get out of this crap. No telling how many germs you’re exposing yourself to.”
“No. I can do it.”
“Never. You’ll never find him in this mess.”
The voice spoke the truth; the pond was full of mess. Any swimmer would find it difficult because the water contained a significant amount of diluted compost. I mentally replied, “I’m going to find him. Shut up.”
“Damn it, you need to breathe. Do as I say.”
“I can stay under a few seconds longer.”
“Then move to your left.”
“Why are you talking to me?”
“You, shut up and move to your left.”
I’d been told any person who heard voices teetered on the edge of insanity, or at the very least an impending nervous breakdown. Although I’d never heard the voice before, I instinctively knew it was the voice of my old friend Mr. Dark. As frayed as my nerves were, I accepted the thought as fact and maneuvered to my left.
“Farther to the left. Now move forward.”
I kicked and felt the bottom. My fingers brushed against fabric. It was Dave’s pants.
“Satisfied?” Mr. Dark asked.
I didn’t waste time answering. I grabbed a fistful of trousers in each hand and dragged him to the surface with me. Drenched in mud, I barreled out of the pond, towing him in my wake. I made a quick rub across my chest, forcing a handful of slime and mud to slide off my skin. The rest would have to wait.
With Dave on dry-ground, I flipped him over onto his side and cleared the gunk out of his mouth and throat. Then I plopped him onto his back and began mouth to mouth resuscitation. I yelled, “Get an ambulance here as fast as possible.”
A car pulled up alongside the Mustang. Jimmy ran toward it—screaming, “Get help. Get an ambulance.”
The driver yelled back, “The wife and I live a few miles back. We’ll hurry and call from there.” The man looked grim. “Is the poor fellow still alive?”
Jimmy answered, “We think so. At least my friend is doing CPR on him—now hurry.”
After what had to be twenty minutes, sirens tore through the dark moonless night. Cars stopped on each side of the wreck. Bystanders from the stopped traffic lined the road, watching me pound Dave’s chest and blow into his lungs. He moved. His shoulder twitched. I leaned him over onto his side and slapped his back, hard. It worked. He coughed, spit, and vomited. I wiped his mouth with the tail of Jimmy’s western shirt. In a moment, he feebly pushed me away; coughed up more watery gunk; then gasped. He lay back on the muddy bank and struggled for one breath after another.
I felt helpless when he reached for me; all he managed to touch was my elbow. He gripped it as hard as he could, like he was holding onto life itself. I looked around at the small crowd gathering along the edge of the pavement. They all started clapping. Some of them whistled and cheered a western yahoo. The emergency ambulance driver and the emergency medical technicians pushed through the gawking onlookers and began taking Dave’s vital signs. A second uniformed responder grabbed me and snapped a blood pressure cuff around my arm. I uncontrollably dripped slime on his white oxfords.
“Sit down,” he commanded.
“I’m fine!” I shouted as I planted my butt onto the dirt between the playa and the road, I figured there was no way I could get dirtier. I was wrong. “I’m not injured, I just look like a mud monster because I pulled him out of the playa.” The slime mixed with the dirt made a sticky clay that clung to my legs and seat.
He pumped the bulb attached to the blood pressure cuff and studied his wristwatch. “Your pulse is a little elevated, but after all this excitement, I guess that’s to be expected.” His professionalism vanished. “Alright, mud monster, where did you learn CPR?”
“Back home, I took classes at the community pool where I work part-time as a lifeguard. I guess they finally came in handy.”
The responder was all smiles as he said, “You saved this guy’s life, good work.” Taking his blood pressure gadget with him, he went to his partner, who promptly buckled Dave onto a gurney.
Roger ran by me, giggled, and threw a handful of dirt over me as he raced up the bank to where Jimmy stood by the Mustang. I yelled, “Dumb-ass prick.” I was tired and in no mood for the childish pranks Roger indulged in.
Grumbling, I stood and headed toward the car, scraping mud off as I went. When I reached the road, a pickup truck marked Sheriff pulled up. Blanket in hand, he saw me coming and intercepted me halfway up the incline. He flung the blanket around my gooey shoulders and walked me to the Ford truck he used as his official vehicle
.
“Where were you guys headin’ before you ran upon this wreck?” he asked.
I took one look at the Sheriff and knew he was trouble. Had my parents called the police and demanded they put out an all-points-bulletin for us? I couldn’t tell this officer the truth or our trip would be nixed. I lied as smoothly as I could, “My brothers and I are heading up to New York to visit our Grandma Fergie.” I purposely used the name of Roger’s grandmother. My folks never talk about my granny. I don’t even know her first name. I wanted to play it safe because there was no telling what this Kansas version of Dudley Do-Right might ask the others.
He reached into the cab and pulled out a thermos. “You drink coffee?”
I nodded.
“Great. Here, have a cup. This will warm you up a bit.” Unscrewing the top and using it for a cup, he handed it to me.
I have to admit the coffee was good.
“Sit here on my tailgate and rest a spell.” He gave me a disarming smile. “You deserve it. From what I gather, you’re the hero of the evening.”
“If you say so,” I replied.
He headed toward the Mustang, Jimmy, and Roger. I waved and caught Jimmy’s attention, I only had time to mouth one word—brother—before the sheriff started chatting up my friends.
“I’ve been talking to your friend over there,” the Sheriff said, pointing back at me with one hand and picked something from his teeth with the other.
Apprehensively, I waved back. After all, they were in earshot and I could make out every word.
Jimmy nodded my direction and lied smoother than silk, “These guys are my brothers. My friends wouldn’t be caught dead hanging out with them.”
“Oh? Well, where’re you guys heading?”
Jimmy looked my way. I nodded, and he answered, “New York, we’re on our way to New York.” At least that much was the truth.
The officer put his hand on Roger’s shoulder and casually asked, “Son, what’s your Granny’s name?”
Roger replied with the speedy enthusiasm I expected, “Fergie.” He stopped and looked up, puzzled. “Why’re you asking? You collecting names of Grannies or something?”
The Sheriff twisted his neck until it loudly cracked before he laughed. “No, son. I ain’t collecting names of Grannies.” He looked at Jimmy and chuckled, “Your little brother is funny as hell.”
Jimmy responded in character, “Yeah, you should try living with him. He’s a regular Jerry Lewis.”
“So, you guys are heading to New York to see your granny?”
I nodded at Jimmy.
“Yeah. It’s not against the law to visit our Granny is it?” Jimmy’s question came across more like an accusation.
“No… no, it’s not. I was wondering why you just happened to be coming up this road on your way to New York. That seems a bit out of your way. I’d think you would want to stay on the major highways to get there faster.” He scratched his chin. “I mean, you were coming from Oklahoma,”—he pointed at the plates on the Mustang—“and from what I can tell you’re going the wrong direction. It’s hard to get to New York by going west.”
Roger barked out, “Yeah, unless someone’s got the hots and detours to give a pretty girl a ride home.”
Making a timely entrance, Rose walked up. “Sheriff, it happened right in front of us. Scared us spit-less.”
Looking her up and down, the Sheriff said, “I suppose you’re the pretty girl who needed a ride.” A lecherous smile spread across his lips before turning back to Jimmy. “Your brother’s right about her. I agree—you should’ve given her a ride.”
Roger mouthed off, “Sheesh, we did give her a ride.”
Ignoring Roger’s outburst, the Sheriff stopped and stared at Rose. “Wait, I know you. You wait tables at the truck stop. The one this side of Joplin.”
“I did.” Rose pressed her lips together as she studied the asphalt under her feet. “Sam fired me tonight. I broke several plates and dumped a tray onto a table.” She shrugged. “I guess I deserved it.” She looked up at the officer with a pitiful expression. “These guys were taking me home.”
“So, young lady, where is home?”
She hesitated, struggling to maintain her smile, before she informed him, “I live just up the road here at Happy Hollow.”
“Ha… Happy Hollow?” he repeated.
“Yes, that’s right. You know the place. It’s the commune you’ve been trying to shut down,” she accused.
The Sheriff’s expression completely changed. He turned back to the truck and sourly said, “This entire state is full of nothing but damned hippies. How did Kansas end up with a shitload of tree-hugging, bead-wearing misfits? They’re everywhere I look.”
“Misfits?” Rose sounded ticked. “Well, don’t get your britches in a bunch on your way to the donut shop. You’re not doing anything here but harassing a bunch of Good Samaritans.”
Stomping away, the Sheriff snatched my coffee from me and screwed the cup back onto the top of the thermos. He tossed it back into the cab of his truck and grabbed up his police radio’s microphone. “These are not the kids we’re looking for. The Mustang has Oklahoma plates. All I found here is a bunch of horny farm boys chasing after one of those hippy chicks from the Hollow. I’m going to check on the driver.” The radio belched a muffled garble of words. From where I stood, I couldn’t make sense of it. “It’s not what I was expecting either. One of these damned kids kept him alive till the ambulance got here.” More muffled electronic gibberish. “10-4, heading to the hospital with the ambulance soon. Meet you there.” Then he all but pushed me off the tailgate and slammed it shut before he headed to the water’s edge to check on the medical technicians.
The emergency medical guys brought a gurney up the embankment, with Dave strapped on it. They carried him over to the ambulance, slid him in, and in less than a minute they had turned the vehicle around; with the siren blaring they speed off, back to Joplin with the Sheriff trailing behind. In another fifteen minutes, a couple of tow trucks arrived. Using a crane, cables, chains, and winches, the operators lifted the trailer and moved it to the side of the road, where they loaded it onto a huge flatbed trailer.
With the road clear again, we were off once more in the direction of Happy Hollow. Rose bummed another cigarette off Jimmy, saying she needed it to calm down. No one else said anything. We rode in silence. I guess they were in shock from the whole ordeal and not knowing if Dave would live or die. Oh, and the cop didn’t help my stress level. I wasn’t sure the exact amount of stress a person could take before their head exploded, but I figured mine was getting close. I’d feel better if they’d at least acknowledge my shining moment of heroism. I would have to act humble as they praised my deed with thanks and accolades. Still, I was willing to make the sacrifice. But no, instead they just sat there, mute.
Without proper facilities, I remained covered in sticky mud. At least Jimmy didn’t hassle me about messing up his backseat. I sat next to Roger, who hugged the far side of the bench seat in fear of getting slightly muddy. Even though my friends were with me, I felt alone sitting there in the shadows.
I think there’s nothing more complicated than the feelings of a fifteen-year-old because as we rode in silence I started thinking about the commune. How did I feel about visiting a real hippie commune? Geeze, I felt more confused than anything. The closer we got to Happy Hollow, the more excitement and fear waged war in my brain. The thought of living without censorship, without reproof, carefree with drugs, sex, and of course, reckless nudity, it all excited me and scared me shitless.
In the dim darkness of the car’s back seat, shadows moved with the passing of every light along the highway. The predictable movement should have resulted in a calming, almost hypnotic effect, but my nerves were at DEFCON three and an air-raid siren sounded in my ears. Without warning, something touched my foot. An uncontrollable “oh” slipped from between my lips, and I heard a passive purr in response. What would have sent anyone of the others screa
ming from the car only told me that my friend, the oddity I called Mr. Dark, was with me. For some reason, it wanted me to acknowledge its presence. I took a deep breath and counted to ten. The sirens stopped and my nerves went back to DEFCON four. Without warning, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and my skin tingled up and down my spine. My short-lived relaxation ended, and I went back to DEFCON three.
“What’s wrong?” Roger asked, holding his head at an awkward angle, “You say something?”
“Oh, n…nothing,” I stammered. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, you did,” he insisted in an insidious tone as he lolled his head from side to side. “You sitting there all slimy…slimy…slimy talking to yourself.” For an instant, I could swear he had rabbit red eyes.
“Okay, smart guy, what did I say?” I turned away and focused on the tiny bit of field I could see out the side window. I glanced back at him.
Roger was half grinning a zombie-like smirk as he stared at me, “I heard you complaining.” His eyes cut to the side. He rolled his head like his neck needed popping and pushed closer to me.
“Well, tell me what I said then.”
“You were whispering,” He snickered. “I can say it with you if it makes you feel better.” He leaned uncomfortably close and whispered, “Holy hell, holy hell, holy hell, holy hell… holy hell.”
I looked away. A chill ran over me from head to foot and a physical pain stabbed my chest. When I glanced back, Roger’s face had returned to normal, and he exclaimed, “You excited about going to the commune? I’m excited. Can’t wait to get there.”
At least he’d lost the insidious look he had been wearing. I didn’t know what to make of it all, especially after a chanting chorus of holy hell. “Roger, stop acting like a shithead. Why did you say that about hell? You’re freaking me out.”
Roger appeared sincere when he said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t said a word till I asked if you were excited as me.” He shook his head. “Man, sometimes you say the weirdest shit.”
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